THAT MYSTERIOUS TEXAS BRAND MAN Read online

  She smiled, mischief in her eyes, sparkling up at him even in the darkness. "Don't be so sure I'll never see you, Guardian. Maybe I'll dive into my car right now and turn on my headlights."

  "You'd like to," he said. "But you won't. You care too much about your sister to risk my breaking our deal and leaving."

  She sighed, her smile dying. "You're right."

  He knew he was right. And maybe that was part of the reason he'd decided to help her, even knowing that it might be the most foolish thing he'd ever done. That love he sensed in her for her sister made it impossible for him to refuse. It touched a chord deep within him. A painful chord, but a vital one.

  She touched his shoulder. "Thank you," she said.

  "It's going to be all right."

  "Do you think so?"

  "I promise."

  She smiled, and he could feel her relief. The burden seemed to ease from her shoulders. He could almost feel its weight settling onto his own. She gripped the door handle. Marcus turned away.

  "Will we at least … talk again?" she asked.

  "We'll talk," he told her. "Tomorrow."

  And he walked away.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Marcus returned to the suite Graham had booked for them, closed the door and leaned back against it. Damn. Damn. He'd told himself not to think about her, not to dwell on the sensations her touch evoked. But he'd battled those very thoughts all the way back here. It was foolish, ridiculous. Part of him blamed Caine. The man had taught him so much, educated him, trained him, made him into a sharp, strong fighting machine. But he'd never once talked to Marcus about this kind of battle. And Marcus had experienced nothing like this in his life.

  He hated this feeling. His biggest asset, the thing that gave him the most confidence in his own abilities, was knowing that he was prepared for any situation he might be thrust into. And being prepared was the key to winning.

  Well, he wasn't prepared for this. No one had trained him to deal with this. He didn't know any exercises or drills to hone his resistance. He didn't know a single weapon that would be effective against his own mind and body.

  Maybe Caine had never experienced anything like this. Maybe that was why he'd never prepared Marcus for it.

  "Feeling poorly?"

  Marcus straightened away from the door and opened his eyes. Graham stood nearby, a cup of fragrant black coffee in his hands. As if he'd read Marcus's mind yet again. "No." He took the coffee. "Thanks."

  "The case, then? Is that what's troubling you?"

  Marcus shook his head, sipped the coffee and headed for an armchair. He was tense. His muscles tighter than a corpse in full rigor mortis. His neck ached and sent a dull throb up into the base of his skull. And for just a second he thought he felt something like fear flit through his soul.

  Fear. Of what? A tiny mite of a woman? A woman who peered up at him, blind in the darkness, and made him feel as if she could see right through his flesh, through his disguises, through his secret identity?

  Ridiculous.

  "When will the computer system be set up, Graham?"

  Graham returned to the sideboard and poured a cup of steamy tea from the silver service waiting there. "I should expect the equipment to be delivered late tomorrow morning," Graham said. "I can have it operational within an hour after that, give or take thirty seconds."

  His dry wit reached past the veil of doom that seemed to be looming over Marcus's head, and he smiled at the older man. "Good," he said. "We need it." He sank into the softest armchair in the room and willed his muscles to relax. They didn't cooperate. "I think it's time you run a detailed background check on Casey Jones." He fished in his pocket for the slip of paper he'd scribbled on earlier and handed it to Graham. "See what you can find on her adoptive sister, Laura, as well. Especially anything about her birth family and the circumstances surrounding the adoption."

  "Those records are sealed, Marcus."

  "So are FBI files, Graham, but you've tapped into them on more than one occasion."

  "Yes, well … one can't have connections everywhere, can one?"

  "What, you don't have an inside line with the stork? I'm shattered, Graham."

  "I can see that."

  Marcus stopped smiling, frowned instead. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just that I've known you for most of your life, and I can see that something has upset you quite severely this evening."

  Marcus sighed, lowered his head. "I wish Caine were here."

  "So do I," Graham said. "More often than you could believe. I never imagined he'd leave this world before me."

  There was such intense feeling in the words that Marcus forgot his own problems for a moment and searched Graham's eyes. But Graham quickly concealed whatever had been in them, and sipped his tea. Lifting his head again, his face inscrutable, he said, "Perhaps I can help with this problem, Marcus. I've been around a long time. I imagine I've learned a bit more than just how to run a computer in all these years."

  Marcus's half smile came and went. There was nothing Graham didn't know about. Caine had hinted once that Graham had been an agency man. CIA. Or that was the impression Marcus had been left with. But in matters like this one, he honestly thought Graham was probably as uninformed as he was. Marcus sighed, lowering his eyes. "It's the client."

  "Is it?"

  He nodded toward the armchair opposite his, and Graham slowly crossed the floor and sat down in it.

  "She's…" Marcus couldn't quite find the word.

  "Beautiful?" Graham asked.

  Marcus nodded. "Yes. But no more beautiful than a hundred other women I've helped over the years. And this never happened with any of them."

  Graham didn't smile. But there was a suspicious twinkle in his old blue eyes. "What never happened?"

  Marcus blinked, gave his head a shake. "I'm not sure. She … she's different. And there's something … very disturbing about her."

  "Disturbing?"

  Marcus nodded. Then searched Graham's eyes. "I sound like an idiot. But I'm telling you, Graham, this is very strange. I don't know how she's doing it, but she's making me…" He averted his eyes.

  "Making you … want her?"

  "That and more."

  "But you've wanted women before, haven't you, Marcus? You've been with women before."

  "This is different. Then it was manageable. I could decide how to proceed, whether to pursue, when to vanish again. This is … it's like she's wielding some kind of power over me."

  "Ah."

  Marcus snapped his head around. "What do you mean, 'ah'?"

  Graham shrugged. "I've experienced this kind of thing before, Marcus. In my youth, of course."

  "So what was it? What did you do about it?"

  Graham's lips moved, stopping just short of a smile. "Her name was Emma," he said. "Oh, she had eyes like gemstones … and all she had to do was run her little finger across the back of my hand to reduce me to jelly." Graham shook his head. "I was a trained operative, specializing in high-risk covert activities. A tough guy, you know. It shook me."

  "Then you were CIA."

  "You know I can't tell you that."

  Marcus sighed and settled back in the chair. "What did you do about it?"

  Graham met Marcus's eyes, and his own were very serious. "Oh, the usual. Told myself she was trouble, vowed to stay away from her, insisted I could control the feelings the way I controlled everything else in my life."

  "And then?" Marcus set his cup down and leaned forward.

  "And then, boy, I married her."

  He could have punched Marcus in the nose and startled him less. All this time … he'd never known.

  He'd never once guessed. "Graham, I had no idea you'd been married!"

  Graham lowered his head. "You … don't usually seem to enjoy discussing things of a personal nature," he said. "The subject never came up."

  Marcus blinked and realized it was true. He and Graham had sha
red the same home for more than twenty years, and yet they barely knew each other. Not the way they should. Not the way members of a family knew each other. He had no idea where Graham went or what he did on his days off. Who his family might be. Where he came from. He'd only begun to suspect Graham's former career as a CIA agent from hints dropped by Caine on his deathbed when he'd seemed compelled to reveal all his secrets.

  "You're right," he said at length. "I do avoid those kinds of conversations, don't I."

  "It's quite all right," Graham said. "I fully understand why."

  Marcus frowned. "That's fascinating to me, since I don't have a clue. Would you care to elaborate?"

  Graham studied Marcus's face for a long moment. "No," he said. "No, I don't think I would." He set his cup precisely in its saucer and got to his feet, gathering up Marcus's empty coffee cup on the way past and disappearing into the kitchen.

  Marcus stared after him and realized there was a lot about Graham that he didn't know. And for the first time, he was curious. But his tense muscles were not easing, even now, and he decided it was time he do something about that. "I think I'll head downstairs and try that hot tub," he called to Graham.

  "Very well," Graham returned. "If you really think it will help."

  There was no one else around. Which was nice. Marcus needed to be alone. To just sit by himself in the rushing, steaming water and let the tension ease out of him. Along with any and every thought that had to do with Casey Jones.

  The hot tub was outside, in a corner near the pool, but with manmade rock piles stacked around it to give it a sense of privacy. There was a bar nearby. But it had closed long ago. Way too early, in Marcus's opinion. Technically, the pool and hot tub areas were closed, as well, but he ignored that. Best time to soak, the way he saw it. No one around. No threats to his solitude.

  He took off his robe, laid it on a stone pile and walked down the steps into the hot water, into the steam. So much steam he could barely see out of it. Jets blasted the hot water so that it swirled around his legs, his thighs. He waded to the far side of the hot tub and lowered himself down, sighing the tension away as he did. Oh, this was good. If he had a whiskey in his hand it would be better, but it was damned near perfect. Almost as good as being back at the estate.

  He shifted until a jet spewed a stream of heat right into the small of his back, and then he slowly relaxed. He tipped his head back against the far wall where the patio lights didn't quite reach and closed his eyes.

  There was a change in the sound of the rushing water. A gentle swishing that hadn't been there before. Marcus brought his head up, opened his eyes and kept them open.

  He couldn't see much through the steam, but he liked what he did see. A pair of legs that were short, but shapely, appeared on the tub steps. And then the body attached to them moved lower, slowly, like some kind of erotic tease show. Little by little she moved through the steam and into his line of vision. Her hips and the place where the black swimsuit crawled between her legs. Then her waist, her belly—flat and tight, but still covered up. He almost sighed in disappointment that the suit wasn't a bikini.

  She said nothing, and he realized she must not even know he was there. No wonder. So much steam. A night chilly enough to keep the sane guests inside.

  She moved farther down the steps. He saw round breasts with stiff little peaks. Yeah. A chilly night. There was creamy skin above the suit's curved neckline. Cleavage. And then a slender neck, and a pretty little chin and soft brown hair, and…

  His eyes flew wide and he went stiff.

  Casey Jones stepped the rest of the way into the tub, still unaware of his presence. Dammit! She'd told him she and her sister were staying at a hotel. Why the hell hadn't he thought to find out which one?

  She came toward him.

  "Damn," he whispered. And he didn't even realize he'd said it aloud until she jerked in surprise, head coming up fast, wide eyes meeting his. Her arms flailed as she lost her balance. Her mouth opened, and then she toppled forward. He reached for her, but it was too late.

  She landed with her head in his lap, face pressed tight to the front of his designer trunks. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud, even as she was struggling to get up.

  He put his hands on her waist and helped her. Her head came out of the water, hair streaming, eyes blinking the chlorine away. She stared at him, her cheeks as red as apples.

  "S…sorry," she muttered.

  There was more light here than Marcus had first thought. Light from the lampposts scattered all around and from the tub itself. She could see his face. But, he reminded himself, she still didn't know who he was.

  His hands were still on her waist. She was on her knees in front of him. As she tried to get up, she pressed her palms to his thighs, then realized what she was doing and yanked them away.

  "Let me help you." He was careful to speak very softly, in case she might recognize his voice. He opened his legs and tightened his arms around her waist, pulling her closer but upward at the same time.

  She blinked and stammered, "Thanks, um, I mean…"

  She'd never have to know, he thought. She'd never have to know it was him. He pulled her closer, no warning, no hesitation, and kissed her. His mouth covered hers, worked her lips, pushed them apart, and then he tasted her.

  She didn't resist. But she didn't respond, either. Except to shiver in his arms. Her mouth didn't move against his. Her arms didn't come around him. Puzzled, he ended the kiss, putting back to search her face.

  "You done?" she asked, her tone acid.

  Marcus shook himself and wondered what the hell had come over him just now. "Sorry," he told her, and he let his arms fall to his sides.

  She stepped backward, turned half away from him, then muttered, "To hell with this," and came whirling toward him again, fist first.

  Her knuckles connected with his jaw and his head snapped back and sideways hard enough that he figured his stiff neck would be worse instead of better. Then she just stood there, glaring at him from furious brown eyes. "I came to use the hot tub," she all but growled at him. "And that's what I'm going to do. You can get out of here, or I'll report your little assault to the management and have you thrown out. What'll it be?"

  He rubbed his jaw. Shook his head. "I said I was sorry."

  "You're sorry, all right."

  With a defeated sigh, he got to his feet and moved past her to the steps. But he felt her eyes on him, knew she was looking her fill, wondered if she liked what she saw.

  "I had that coming," he told her, moving up the steps, reaching for his robe. "And to tell the truth, it's just as well. This would have been … a bad idea."

  "Don't even think about coming back," she said. "I have mace."

  He smiled unwillingly, and the action hurt his wounded jaw. "I'll bet you do." He put on the robe. "Enjoy your soak, Casey. I won't bother you again."

  "You'd better not," she snapped as he turned and walked away. He was all the way past the pool and going through the doors when he heard her yell after him, "Wait a minute! How did you know my name? Hey, you!"

  He grimaced and picked up his pace, ducking around a corner and into a stairwell. He wiped his feet on the carpet so he wouldn't leave a wet trail, then took the stairs up to his suite.

  Damn. He probably couldn't be screwing things up more if he tried. Then he rubbed his jaw again, smiling to himself. She was something, that Casey Jones.

  Casey couldn't really enjoy the hot tub after that. She didn't like the idea of being alone out here while some kissing bandit who knew her name waited to pounce again. It had shaken her. And she supposed if she had to analyze it, it hadn't been a bad kiss. It was just that any kiss that was unwelcome was a bad one, so it was impossible to say for sure. The surprise, the fear made it impossible to know.

  He must have been some kind of lunatic.

  With a body like a god. But a lunatic was a lunatic no matter what he looked like in brief scraps of spandex.

  Sh
e cut her soak short and headed back to her room. And in no time at all, she was able to put the hot tub incident and the man involved in it completely from her mind.

  But she couldn't stop thinking about the mysterious Guardian. He'd certainly had ample opportunity to pounce on her if he'd wanted to. But he hadn't. He was a man of too much integrity for something like that. Either that or he wasn't interested. But she kind of thought he was.

  What if he had? What if he'd just grabbed her and kissed her the way that nutcase in the hot tub had done? How would she have responded?

  She closed her eyes, tried to imagine it, then popped them open and chided herself for being charmed by the Guardian's mystique. It was just a cover. Who knew what kind of man he really was without the secret identity? Who knew what he even looked like?

  She was going to find out.

  She was going to learn everything there was to know about him or her name wasn't Casey Jones. She could do it, too.

  The next day she spent her lunch hour ensconced in the local library's microfiche room, scanning back issues of the Silver City Times and printing up copies of every article that mentioned the Guardian.

  The problem was, there were a lot of them.

  She'd begun with recent issues and moved backward. But she kept finding more articles. December '89. July '85. May '80. And she kept going. September '75. August '68. February '55.

  "Fifty-five?" She blinked at the screen, but there was no question. The date, the story, the Guardian. It was all right there in black and white. "Maybe he's just older than I thought."

  But how old?

  She kept searching. January 6, 1948. That seemed to be the first … the infamous story wherein the reporter had named Silver City's shadowy vigilante "The Guardian."

  "Not that old," Casey whispered. She'd touched every inch of his face, and no way had that face been around in 1948, fighting crime. He'd have to be at least seventy years old to be the man in this piece.

  Casey leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, shook her head. "Two answers," she whispered. "Either he's immortal … or there has been more than one 'Guardian' over the years." He'd alluded to that, hadn't he? Yes, suddenly his words made more sense. "It wasn't even me then," he'd told her, referring to the time when the nickname had been given to him. She'd wondered then. Now she thought she understood.